


Skin and Scars

by LivaWilborg



Series: Skin and Scars [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed, Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: ...Technically, Assassin's Creed: Rogue, First Time, M/M, Nonconsensual, Shaytham
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-19
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-21 15:48:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6057241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivaWilborg/pseuds/LivaWilborg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just after murdering Hope Jensen, Shay is less than coherent due to the poison she used. He is brought to Haytham's house.</p><p>This includes: Violence, Haytham's manangement skills and (technically) non-consensual steamy stuff. And chapter two features Shay having actual coherent lines of dialogue plus MORE STEAMY STUFF.<br/>lol</p><p>(Second (and probably last) chapter is posted =D) (...Ok, strike that. Follow-up posted as part two of a series, in case you are interested ^^)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Skin and Scars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aniphine](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aniphine/gifts).



**Skin and Scars**

Was it worry he felt? He examined the oddly powerful emotion that had flitted across his mind like a lightning bolt from a clear sky as he hurried back to the town-mansion. No, he negotiated with himself, not worry. Perhaps a certain kind of annoyance at the possibility of losing a valuable asset? But then again, he had faith in Master Cormac’s focus and abilities. …Even faith in his loyalty, which was a rare thing. Losing him would be a setback, Haytham concluded. That was what the sudden emotion had represented! Yes, absolutely…

He ran up the carved stone stairs leading up to the house, two steps at a time, and was greeted in the doorway by the elderly Mr. Williams, the head servant of the household, exuding calm and order.

“I’m happy to see you, Mr. Kenway.” the servant observed, giving a short bow and holding open the door. “The boy I sent out to find you was successful, Sir?”

“Indeed.” Haytham nodded, and stopped in the hall. From the upstairs came the muffled sound of a struggle and many pairs of feet moving about. A maid came hurrying through the hall, carrying a washbowl of hot water and a heap of clean linen draped over her arm. She curtsied quickly when she saw the master of the house and then hurried up the stairs with her burden.

“Master Gist brought him in not twenty minutes ago, Sir. He was quite …vocal, though that abated for a while after he broke young Marshall’s arm and gave Mr. Parsons a cracked eyebrow.” the servant reported matter-of-factly. “Fortunately Doctor Church is here now to assist.”

“Very well.” Haytham’s hand lifted to give his hat to the servant, his attention focused on the sounds from above. Then he remembered that he had lost his hat in the fight and his hand fell to his side. He sighed.

“May I take your coat, Sir? It seems some uncouth person has had the audacity to bleed on it.” Mr. Williams commented calmly.

“Yes, terrible thing. There was a bit of a scuffle about town today.” Haytham said, attention snapping back, and handing his coat to the servant as the sounds of struggle intensified from above. A half-strangled cry, moving feet, the sound of a chair falling over. Haytham brushed his vest off, noticing a few red droplets on the front with annoyance. “Serve dinner in the parlour at eight, please. It seems I have company this evening.”  he said and started up the stairs.

From a guest room at the end of the upstairs hallway came Master Gist’s voice: “Be still, damn you, or–“ A crash sounded, a scream from the maid, something heavy impacted on a wall.

“No tea this afternoon, Sir?” Mr. Williams enquired calmly from the hall.

“…Perhaps something stronger would be prudent, Williams.” Haytham commented absentmindedly before reaching the landing. The sounds grew louder, the door burst open, and a very dishevelled Doctor Church came stumbling out, closely followed by the maid who had just brought the washbowl, soaking wet with hot water. The girl tripped over the doctor in her momentum and they landed in a heap. One of them screamed. Haytham wasn’t certain who.

“Cormac’s gone mad!” Church simply stated, a note of offence in his voice, as he picked himself, and then the maid, up. Haytham waved the pair off, trying hard not to shake his head incredulously.

“Stop being–“ Gist’s voice was cut short by a wild cry from inside as Haytham crossed the threshold. “– a damned lunati–“

Shay’s elbow connected with Gist’s nose, making him lose the stranglehold. Haytham watched the pair flailing about on the floor of the guest room, Gist trying to control Shay who was wild-eyed and panicked, evidently trying to flee with all his might although his movements were insecure and uncoordinated. He squirmed madly and with a wordless cry managed to kick Gist in the chest, breaking the grip and sending him sliding across the floor where he lay stunned for a moment, blood pouring from his nose.

“Master Gist.” Haytham extended a hand and hauled the man to his feet. “Please explain.”

“He was down by the docks.” Gist slurred through the blood and put a hand to his nose and gestured towards Shay who was slowly hauling himself up. The former assassin’s hair hung loose, one of his feet were bootless and his coat was hanging on to him by the empty weapon-holster strapped across his chest and one arm in a sleeve. His face and hands were cut, and blood was smeared on his bare foot.

“The docks are half a city away from where the fighting was.” Haytham commented.

Gist shrugged. “Whatever happened, he was just stumbling around, docile enough when I found him. Good thing I disarmed him then.” Gist gestured at Shay who had managed to cling on to a table and haul himself up.

“Quite.” Haytham commented, looking at the pandemonium in the previously tidy guest room. The washbowl was on the floor, chairs flung randomly, a window cracked and linen rags were strewn like strange patches of snow everywhere. Not one piece of furniture was in its proper place.

Haytham took a step towards Shay who fell to his knees, weakly clinging to the table, but Gist put a hand on the Grand Master’s arm.

“Respectfully, perhaps we should let him be? He keeps attacking us. Maybe we should let him giggle his fill and just stop him if he does something too dim-witted.” He picked up one of the linen pieces and pressed it to his face.

“Or maybe we should _stop_ _attacking_ _him_!” Haytham stated, his exasperation finally grown too abundant to hide. “Have the servants leave some fresh medical supplies outside the door. I’ll deal with this.” He gestured Gist towards the door. “I will not be disturbed!”

“Call if you need us, Sir.” Gist said, muffled through the cloth and closed the door behind him.

Haytham sighed and regarded Master Cormac, who kept struggling to stand although his legs would obviously not carry him.

Slowly, Haytham moved to the opposite side of the table which the former assassin was fighting for leverage with, and crouched down so they were at eye height across the table-top. The pupils of Shay’s eyes were so dilated that his eyes seemed black, and although Haytham was directly opposite to Shay, it was clear he wasn’t being noticed.

“Master Cormac.” Haytham said quietly.

“No, no, no, no. no…” Shay fumbled to clap his hands over his ears, fell in a heap on the floor and began crawling away. “No, no scream. …World moves. I can’t...”

Haytham very slowly moved closer as Shay managed to get himself into a corner of the room and seemed unable to cope with directions anymore, although being trapped quickly seemed to spark a wave of fear in him and his breath became heaving, the eyes wilder.

“Master Cormac!” Haytham demanded, obviously not being heard. It was strangely unnerving seeing a strong and capable man crumbled like this.

Haytham sighed again and sat down on his haunches a way off: “Shay?” he asked softly.

“Hope is dead.” Shay said in a subdued voice.

Haytham just nodded. “You have been poisoned.” he said gently.

“No. …It’s… It’s Hope.” Shay finally turned his face towards the Grand Master and began edging to his feet by pressing his back to the wall and hauling himself up so the heavy coat he had worn finally dropped to the floor. “She keeps…” he fell sideways as though the world had tried to shake him off, and succeeded, and Haytham quickly jumped towards him, grabbing an arm and forcing it over his own shoulder so he could help keep the other man on his feet. For a moment, Shay was dead weight in his grip, and then he began stumbling forward, half self-preservation, half fight, and Haytham tightened his grip and supported him as well as he could as they took a few tentative steps.

“Hope...” Shay stated.

“Yes?”

“She’s a–“ he took a few steps. “She’s a sodding banshee, she is! She… she screams. Screams at me. Like… the child in the rubble. Under stones. I… I didn’t stop. I can’t…”

Haytham steadied the other man and was about to deposit him on the bed, when he heard Shay’s sharp, panicked intake of breath. “No! No! I have to keep moving. The world. Tilts. She makes it tilt. She screams. I’ll–”

“Alright. Steady. I won’t let you fall.” Haytham, hearing soft footfalls in the hallway when Mr. Williams left the requested supplies on the other side of the door, took a hold of Shay again and led him back and forth, slowly, calmly, waiting for him to find his footing with every step.

“Hope. Is dead.” Shay finally offered and then fell silent again.

One step. One more. One more.

“I know.” Haytham said quietly.

Suddenly Shay gave a short, pained laugh: “She is killing me. With the screaming… The… Victims. I won’t live. I can’t. I was too late and…”

“You are a Master Templar, Shay. You have earned the right to that title against all odds. You are strong enough to live through this.” He walked them slowly close to a wall and tentatively let Shay lean against it, finally taking a few moments to look the man over. The clothes he wore were cut and torn, blood seeping into the fabric from multiple smaller wounds all the way down his front.

“Earned… There’s too much noise…” his head fell back to lean against the wall.

“Will you trust me?” Haytham asked, steadying the other man and trying to catch his gaze.

Shay looked at him for a long while, his black eyes empty and confused, before he suddenly slumped. “I… Yes. …Sir.”

“Then I will hear the voices instead of you. You will have silence.” He slipped Shay’s arm over his shoulder again and they slowly began the short walk to the other end of the room.

Hoping Shay’s cooked mind would keep him busy, Haytham made to sit the man carefully on the bed after a few trips back and forth, and when the panicked reaction came, he kept Shay on his feet.

“You have to sit down for a short while. I have to see how damaged you are. Count twenty heartbeats, then we will walk again.” When the expected resistance didn’t happen, and he just received a tired, blank-stared nod, he proceeded to remove the weapon holster and Shay’s vest and shirt, wincing at the sight of a massive, dark bruise down one side of his chest and numerous deep cuts.

“I have to keep moving.” Shay’s voice was slow and subdued, and Haytham just nodded, hauling the man to his feet again.

o-0-o

The sun had dipped below the horizon when Shay’s endurance was finally at a snapping-point. They had walked steadily back and forth, interspersed with sessions of picking glass shards out of Shay’s chest, arms and legs, cleaning and sewing up the cuts. A nasty little puncture wound at his throat had turned out to still contain the broken tip of a poisoned dart.

Shay kept mostly calm as long as movement was a promise he could trust between the stitching and bandaging and Haytham felt oddly gratified in his mind that Gist and Church and the servants had been dismissed. Shay would probably not appreciate being seen like this, poison-induced desperation and panic constantly lurking under the surface as he staggered barefoot back and forth, too weak and unfocused to walk without support, and wearing only his cotton under-breeches, the legs of which Haytham had sliced open earlier to have access to picking vicious shards of glass out of Shay’s thighs.

The water that had been brought had long since grown cold and red. Haytham had heard footfalls in the hallway again just before the sun went down and had found a tray of food and drink, a fresh bowl of water and a lit lantern deposited in the empty, quiet hallway. He had quickly lit a fire in the grate and another lamp to see by, but hadn’t been able to get Shay to take any sustenance. It was a long time, and many stumbling trips back and forth, before he finally managed to get Shay to sit on the bed, fatigued to a point of being relatively free of the mind-chaos that had haunted him.

“Lie down.” Haytham demanded.

Shay hesitated, a bruised hand reaching out fumblingly to clamp on to the bed frame in an exhausted promise of defiance that almost made Haytham smile: “I promise you, Master Cormac, you are safe. I am not leaving until I know you are well.”

“…Sir.” Shay mumbled.

Haytham bent down, catching the black gaze. “Trust me, Shay.”

Slowly the hand relaxed its grip and Shay dropped down on the bed with a subdued exclamation of pain.

Haytham held the lamp close to Shay’s face, and saw his eyes, as inky as they had been earlier. He sighed and put the lamp back on the bedside table, then he scooped Shay’s legs, dangling over the side of the bed, up, so he could rest as comfortably as the cuts and wounds would allow.

Haytham sat down on the edge of the bed, wringing out a cloth to cool the other man’s face gently. Shay lay there, staring emptily, and only blinked on reflex when a drop of water from the cloth rolled into his eyes.

“She’s silent.” Shay finally volunteered.

“Then you can relax. You did your duty.”

Shay turned his dark stare in Haytham’s direction, saying nothing.

“You are safe, I won’t let you die.” Haytham said softly, held by the stare, until he wrested himself away and threw the cloth in the washbowl. He couldn’t leave. Not quite yet. Not until Shay slept peacefully and he had done all he could.

He rested his fingertips on the other man’s bruised chest to feel the erratic heartbeat, but it seemed as though the beats travelled up his hand and arm, and he was drawn in again by the intensity of Shay’s black gaze.  Haytham moved his hand across skin, to help himself get away from the strange, empty scrutiny, only succeeding when his fingertips met an old scar. Dented warm skin. He looked down, familiar now with Shay’s body, as the pile of glass shards he’d pulled out of the man’s flesh could attest to.

The old scar held his fascination, however. He had been so focused on the new injuries that the old ones hadn’t really registered in his mind.

There were several scars, now that he took the time to look. Unsurprising, of course; he imagined Shay had probably been fighting ever since he learned to walk.

Haytham’s fingers very slowly followed the old scar across the shoulder and collarbone, his touch unhurriedly winding around a fresh cut that intersected with it. Shay’s eyes closed for a moment, then the blank, dark stare-at-nothing was back, but some of the tension in his muscles dissipated.

Studying the map of past and present pain that was Shay’s skin, Haytham’s fingers slowly explored the scars, although he couldn’t explain to himself why he did it.

A series of deep lacerations ran from the side of the abdomen down over the hip and disappeared below the waist of the under-breeches. Tracing the scars with his fingertips, Haytham smiled in recognition; miss a step, judge a distance wrong jumping from one roof to another, and the sharp roof-tiles you clung to desperately would kiss you like this. His hand brushed over the damaged skin gently, and he heard a soft sigh from Shay. His eyes were still open, staring at the ceiling, but he seemed to relax a bit more.

Haytham found his fingers winding up Shay’s stomach, the feeling of warm skin and hard muscle sending an undefinable exhilaration through his body. He traced a scar where a knife several years ago had slashed upwards from below the ribs, where the wound had been deeper, going all the way up the chest and ending in a finer line where it had sliced through the nipple. He winced, not sure why that seemed worse than the destruction of the other tissue. But it did.

Fingertips continued the exploration, caressing the scar and brushing gently against the broken nipple. Shay gave a subdued gasp, and although the eyes were still staring blankly, his body pushed almost imperceptibly towards the touch for a moment.

A wolf-grin spread unbidden on Haytham’s face. Something about this reaction was too intense to let slide. His fingertips again brushed softly against Shay’s nipple and he was rewarded with a soft sigh and the realisation that this was arousing, evidently for the both of them, judging from a glance at what was happening in Shay’s breeches.

He should stop.

He should most definitely stop!

And he knew there was absolutely no chance that he would.

Haytham's hand moved up to caress the pulse in the neck, brushing around the wound from the poisoned dart, feeling Shay relax under the touch, panicked tension being replaced with a much more agreeable need. Shay turned his head a fraction as if encouraging the caress in spite of being evidently far away in his poisoned mind. His lips were slightly parted and the eyes half closed.

Haytham’s hand slowly explored along the lean curves of Shay’s shoulder and arm. It was strangely delicious feeling hard muscles under his fingers instead of a woman’s rounded softness.

He took his time, letting his fingertips travel slowly. The scars had been just a stepping stone for the exploration of skin, and his hands went pleasurably back and forth over arms, thighs, chest, while he fought to keep his breath even and keep control of his own reactions. He saw and felt how Shay’s body reacted, the slow build-up of erotic tension colouring the rhythm of his breath and relaxing his battered body. The black, faraway gaze under half closed lids turned calmer, a dreamy look of pleasure in his features.

Somewhere in Haytham’s mind, he knew he was taking notes as his hands moved, purposefully forcing all this into his memory so no detail would be lost to him. The feeling of Shay’s muscles relaxing slowly under his hands, his breath gradually turning quicker as the need became more pronounced, the play of golden lamp-light and shadow across his body and face. None of it would be allowed to slip from his memory. None of it.

He had to take a deep breath to focus himself and force his hands to be steady when he unbuttoned the ragged under-breeches, slowly pulling them down as he caressed Shay’s hips, lingering at the scar from the roof-top encounter again, now that he had full access to it and he smiled when he saw Shay’s hands twitch and clench into the blanket he lay on, his half-closed eyes were still staring into space but his body was fully attentive.

Haytham’s hands continued their caressing paths, one playing gently across hip and thigh, one sneaking back up the old scar and in soft circles around the broken nipple as Shay’s breath became audible, heaving, his eyes closing, hands clenching harder, his battered body tensing under the touch of Haytham’s hands.

Fingertips brushing up the scar and ending at the broken nipple was all it took to finish it, and Haytham felt Shay arch up towards his touch as his pleasure climaxed; a subdued, wordless exclamation escaping him. Haytham clenched his teeth, mustering all his willpower to keep his own body out of the game he had technically just forced on Master Cormac. His hands did a final, painfully slow sweep down Shay’s body before he lifted them, feeling deprived with the sudden lack of contact between them. His hands shook. He clenched them forcefully and studied the man in the bed, the peaceful look in his face, his eyelids falling almost shut, the quick breath slowly returning to normal.

Haytham wasn’t certain how long he sat on the bed, staring, fighting to get his body under control. This, he knew, would be haunting him for a long time to come and the vitality gained from this impossible, self-imposed frustration would have to be purposefully directed, used. There was always work to be done and the energy from this encounter would carry him far. It would have to. There was no other solution. This situation could never again repeat.

He drew a deep breath. His hands didn’t shake anymore. Almost. The deep echo of erotic need in his entire body would have to stay there and be accepted. With a sigh, he reached for one of the last clean linen rags and slowly wiped Shay’s stomach. Then, forcing the last tremble out of his movements, he buttoned the man’s breeches.

It wasn’t enough. He suspected it never would be.

One more touch. Just one. Then he would leave.

Reaching out his hand, his fingers gently followed the scar running down Shay’s forehead and cheekbone. There was a slow, sleepy blink, and then the Master Templar under his hands gave a sigh, his eyes fell shut, and he was swallowed up by much needed sleep.

Haytham sat for a while longer, listening to Shay’s breath as it became calm and regular, and he was certain he wouldn’t forget a single detail. Then he gathered up all the linen rags and threw them on the fire before leaving the guest room, not looking back.

 

 


	2. Hope's Wake

It was past two in the morning as Haytham was walking home. The late October night was chill, he was tired after a very long day and was quietly grateful when the town-mansion came into view.

Walking up to the house, he saw a faint stripe of light showing over the top of the wall surrounding his home. It was wrong in the quiet and moonless night. None of the servants in the household were in the habit of bumbling around in the house after ten in the evening and all other lights on this side of the house were sensibly absent.

Haytham quickly looked around, but found the street deserted and the rooftops empty. Then he nimbly jumped up to grasp the top of the wall and noiselessly hauled himself up so he could spy on his own home.

The light shone from the kitchen windows on the ground floor at the back of the house. He glanced around the small, night-clad garden. All was quiet.

Frowning, he lifted himself up to balance on top of the wall to get a better look, annoyance and expectation of violence mingling, while his mind went through the possibilities: Perhaps thieves had broken in? Or worse, assassins were in the process of making a nuisance of themselves? Or perhaps …Master Cormac was simply on his feet again, Haytham realised, as the readiness to deal with possible intruders dissipated.

Shay was sitting alone, in the calm and quiet kitchen, in an old armchair close to the fire. One leg was pulled up on the chair, an arm resting on his bent knee. He held a mug in his hand, and on a footstool within reach stood a tray with a teapot and a plate of bread and cheese. He was staring into the fire, oblivious to his observer on the wall, apparently lost somewhere in his own inner world.

Sneaking quietly a few paces along the top of the wall, Haytham got a better view of Shay’s face. He looked tired, worn, and there was a slight frown on his brow as he sat in his own little circle of light and loneliness. Somehow, to Haytham’s mind, the solitude was intensified by the fact that Shay was unarmed and dressed as an ordinary man, shirt, vest, pants, but barefoot. His dark hair wasn’t tied back as it usually was, which softened his features in an odd, undefinable way.

There was something almost painfully un-threatening about him that made his isolation seem more grievous.

Haytham soundlessly jumped down to the street again and walked around the house to the main entrance. He sighed as he pulled the key from his pocket.

On the one hand, he was missing the sound of Shay’s accent.

He shook his head at himself with this snippet of inner dialogue.

On the other hand, the pain of the last week, the constant struggle not to give in to the memory of the _Incident in the Guest Room_ , as his mind had long since categorised it, the excessive work-hours he had forced on himself, the very few hours of exhausted sleep he had permitted himself to take… All of this made him wish he could avoid the man.

He let himself into the hall of the house, throwing off his overcoat, jacket, hat and weapon-belt before making his way to the kitchen.

Avoiding Shay would be ridiculous.

It had been excruciating enough knowing he was in the house, fevered and hurting as his mind put itself back together and his wounds healed. The thought of lying in bed tonight and knowing the man was sitting coherent in the kitchen would be an even greater challenge of control versus imagination. And besides, all of this nonsense would need to be purged from his mind. It was interesting while it lasted, but Master Cormac was an asset of the Order, no more and no less, and it was about time the unfitting and highly distracting reactions to him were banished.

“’Evening, Sir.” Shay had put the cup down and got to his feet with a slight sigh of pain, his back still turned, as Haytham reached the doorway to the kitchen.

“How did you know it was me?” bemusement forced Haytham to ask.

Shay turned: “I know your footsteps. You always sound like you have a purpose.”

“I see.” Haytham almost smiled. “And you are back among the unwounded part of the population.”

Shay gave a small smile and a nod: “Now I just need to woo a lonely boot somewhere and I can get out of your way and go back to Fort Arsenal, Sir.”

Haytham found his feet directing him into the kitchen and he dragged a chair next to Shay’s, close to the fire: “Nonsense.” he commented, taking a seat, holding out his hands towards the flames to warm them. “You’ve hardly been in the way, there’s no rush.”

Shay sat down too: “Thank you, Sir, but I think your staff would disagree, at least those I apparently mauled. …And so would Gist and Church, for that matter, as I understand it.”

A laugh threatened to burst forth as Haytham remembered the violent madness: “You held your own. I don’t believe you have anything to be ashamed of. And you managed to almost shut Master Gist up, which is a stunning feat of strength all of its own.” he commented, fighting to keep the laughter out of his speech and not quite succeeding.

“That man’s voice can echo on an open ocean…” Shay said, almost reverently.

Haytham lost the fight and gave a laugh: “Apt description.”

“I suppose I’ll have to offer him to take a couple of free punches at me.” Shay mused seriously.

“Spice that up with a couple of free drinks and all should be well between you.”

Shay smiled and shook his head, staring into the fire. Then he turned serious again: “I killed Hope. But Liam got away with the box. And they found a way to make it work.” He rubbed a hand over his face, suddenly slumping tiredly in his chair. “I was so damned stupid, Sir. I might as well have bought the man safe passage on an eastbound ship.” He sighed, frustrated. “Everything I did has put the world in greater jeopardy.”

“…And yet the world still stands.” Haytham stated quietly.

Shay turned and looked at Haytham, a mix of confusion and anger suddenly bleeding into his features. “Why are you not shouting at me to bugger off? Or disappointed? I failed!”

“You went there to kill Miss Jensen, and you succeeded. The resources and expertise she represented to the Assassins are now out of their reach, which will surely be a setback to them. We will find the box, it’s a matter of patience and planning.”

Shay closed his eyes for a moment, then he sighed, tired calm resurfacing. “She told me I was too late. Just before I put a blade through her neck. She wouldn’t stop bleeding.”  He stared blankly at the floor in front of him, reminding Haytham of the poisoned stare-at-nothing. Finally snapping back, Shay sat up straight in the chair. “Sorry, Sir.” he said quietly.

“I sent you out to kill someone who was once your ally. I understand. Do not apologise.”

“Ally, yes. …More like friend, actually. Long ago. She was always so disciplined. And beautiful. …I rather fancied her, when I was younger; after catching a glimpse of her apple pies when she bathed. She was so furious.” Shay volunteered, shaking his head at himself. “I think she considered me an unfocused fool most of the time. I suppose she was right, too.”

“I’m not in the habit of swearing in unfocused fools, Master Cormac.” Haytham remarked.

“I suppose I’ll choose to trust that.” Shay fell silent, looking into the fire again, brow furrowed like he was navigating his way through confusing thoughts. Haytham studied his profile, noting that his eyes were a light brown, with a touch of dark green specks, and forced that into his memory alongside the Incident in the Guest Room, although he longed to be rid of that recollection.

“I’ll take the Morrigan out. For a few weeks. I’ll get her fitted tomorrow and leave the day after.” Shay finally said, turning to look at the Grand Master: “With your leave, Sir?”

“…I won’t stop you.” Haytham said, slightly mystified at the sudden decisiveness. “But I wish to know your reasoning if it pertains to the precursor box.”

“It’s not about the box. Not really.”

“Not really?”

Shay sighed: “It’s just about… me, I suppose. Hope will be mourned by her brothers in arms. But…” he gestured resignedly, seeming to search for the words. “I know that our side will be going all nations about her death. And that… being congratulated for killing her… Celebrating that she’s dead. I can’t do that. Not just yet.”

Haytham nodded and got to his feet, feeling Shay’s puzzled gaze on him as he looked through a few kitchen cupboards until he located the bottle of brandy he knew the head servant of the household kept.

Shay stood up slowly.

Haytham found two clay cups. “This is not a celebration, Master Cormac.” he stated, handing a cup to Shay and pouring for both of them before setting the bottle on the table behind them. 

Both lifted their drinks and when their eyes met, Haytham saw the serious solemnity in Shay’s expression.

“To Hope Jensen.” Haytham said. “May she be remembered by those who respected her.”

Shay nodded quietly and both drained their cups.

They regarded each other silently for a moment. “Does that include you, Sir?” Shay finally asked, more curious than challenging.

“After seeing the state she left you in? I won’t forget Hope!” Haytham said sincerely, forcefully keeping his memories under lock and key.

A small smile slowly curled Shay’s lips. They both took their seats again, Shay twirling the cup between his hands for a moment before setting it aside. “It’s been three years since I fled the Assassins. Feels like much longer.”

“You’ve certainly kept busy.”

They fell silent for a moment, then Shay asked: “Does anything ever rattle you. Or surprise you, Sir? I’m curious.”

“Surprise me? …Rarely. But it happens. Why?”

“The rarity would make it memorable when it happened, I suppose?”  Shay asked, apparently caught somewhere between thoughtful and half amused.

“I suppose it would…” Haytham commented, trying to read Master Cormac’s expression and purpose, and coming up exasperatingly empty handed.

Shay stretched his bare feet towards the fire and carefully leaned back in his chair. Very slowly he rolled up the baggy sleeves of his shirt. “When was the last time it happened, Sir? If you don’t mind me asking?”

Haytham gave a short, incredulous laugh. He should never have a conversation like this with anyone in the Order. And he severely questioned the wisdom of having a conversation like this with Shay in particular. It was too friendly. Too personal. Too close. Too vulnerable. If he needed to confide in anyone, he would write his thoughts down and burn the papers directly afterwards.

But memories of the Incident in the Guest Room lurked too vividly at the back of his mind when he saw Shay studying him. He had forced the man into that situation without his knowledge or consent. He owed him.

“I’m waiting for you to tell me to sod off, Sir.” Shay remarked casually.

“That’s not for you to dictate.” Haytham finally replied, keeping his voice even. “I distinctly remember being very surprised when Master Monro told me he had picked your sorry half-corpse up.” he explained.  “…I might even have raised my voice at some point in the conversation and questioned his mental wellbeing and the moral integrity of his maternal heritage.” 

Shay’s quiet, deep laughter was a new experience, washing the hard lines away from his face and the constantly present tension from his body; tension which Haytham hadn’t even known was there until it vanished.

“You called Colonel Monro an insane son of a whore!” he laughed.

“Something to that effect…” he shrugged.

The laughter slowly bubbled off. “I never heard either of you raise your voices. …I wish I could have been there.”

“There was certainly an element of comedy to it, looking back.” Haytham mused. “Master Monro was also quite loudly specific in his replies, as I remember.”

“Bless his soul in Heaven!” Shay stated, amused. 

“Why were you curious about this?” Haytham asked, trying to keep his smile under control.

Shay looked at him, the laugh still softening his features, though with a disquieting look of calculation or evaluation suddenly hiding in his eyes.

“Because I am surprised, I suppose.” he stated and got to his feet with a small grimace of pain, slowly taking a few steps to stand in front of Haytham’s chair.

There was nothing threatening about his stance, and with the rolled up shirt-sleeves, it was clear no hidden blade was strapped to his arm, but Haytham still went through an instantaneous checklist, having an intuitive feeling where this was going: The sturdy clay cup was still in his hand and could be smashed in his opponent’s face, the hidden blade was nestled comfortably in his sleeve, the fire poker was within two pace’s reach, so was the brandy bottle, and a sturdy kick would send Shay into the large fireplace. The bruise down his side was also clearly still troubling him, which would give Haytham an advantage. He sat calm, unmoving.

“And what are you surprised about, Master Cormac?” he enquired.

Shay very slowly bent down and put his hands on the armrests of Haytham’s chair, bringing them face to face. His eyes examined Haytham’s features and finally met his gaze, still seeming to search for something.

When no answer seemed forthcoming, Haytham raised an eyebrow, forcing himself to keep his breath even and not to draw back in the chair.

Very slowly Shay’s hand lifted. “A memory.” he said. His hand reached Haytham’s face and his fingertips brushed over his forehead and cheekbone, drawing a line down past the ear to the quickened pulse of the neck before he slowly let the hand fall back on the armrest. “I’m surprised at a memory, Sir.”

“…Ah, I see.” Haytham simply said, fighting down the impulse to break away from the other man’s gaze and trying hard to ignore the burning sensation the fingers had traced on his skin. Most likely, this would not end well and he had to keep himself undistracted. 

“Very well; what happens now, Master Cormac?”

“…So I _was_ right. I didn’t imagine it.” Shay said softly, not moving.

“You didn’t.” Haytham simply confirmed. Lying would be pointless, and a conclusion would soon be reached. It pained him. Although the expected aggression was nowhere to be seen in the brown eyes. Yet.

“I have a question, then.” Shay said, his face still only inches from Haytham’s.

The Grand Master’s hand tightened on the cup and his mind had long since judged the distance the hidden blade would have to travel to make friends with the other man’s ribcage.

“Ask.” he said.

“Why did you do it? …What did you get out of it?” He shook his head a little, perplexed.

“Why did I do it…” Haytham had asked himself this many times in the last week. “Chance suddenly presented the opportunity… and my curiosity made me follow through.” He sighed. “…And what did I get out of it? Abundant frustration.”

Shay leaned even closer, his eyes narrowing as he studied Haytham intensely. “You are telling me the truth.” he finally observed, a note of confusion in his voice.

“Of course I am!” Haytham snapped immediately, a week’s worth of carefully controlled unfulfillment flooding to the surface. “And what happens now! Make. Up. Your. Mind!” 

“As you say, Sir.” Shay closed the narrow gap between them, tilting his head slightly sideways, and softly brushed his lips against Haytham’s. Then he withdrew a little; exactly enough that the half-touch lingering between them was both a painful loss and delicious promise.

The cup shattered on the floor tiles.

Haytham sat petrified.

It had to be a ruse, but his mind was grasping ineffectually at reactions as the overwhelming sensation of the pleasurable contact flooded him and wreaked havoc with his entire body, locking him in place.

Then he felt Shay’s smile as another kiss gently prodded his lips, encouragingly, the tip of the other man’s tongue feeling like a brief burn to the skin, before he withdrew again, re-establishing the painful promise of contact.

“Damn you!” Haytham finally burst out, the fact that he hadn’t seen this coming stirring up a deep resentment at his own lack of astuteness, and he found the hand with the hidden blade suddenly closed around Shay’s throat in a gesture of serious warning. 

He pressed him back firmly and stood up, Shay following fluidly, though obviously biting down a small gasp of pain at the sudden movement.

They stood there, an arm’s length apart, Shay’s back almost up against the brick front of the fireplace. Haytham felt short of breath and the pulse in Shay’s neck was drumming quickly against his palm.

Shay’s eyes flickered down to the hand at his throat, alert, but not hostile; then he slowly held his arms slightly out to his sides and lifted his gaze.

The hand at the throat relaxed a little and Haytham’s thumb rested against the almost healed puncture wound from the poisoned dart. He longed to explore, feel scarred, warm skin under his hands again. Urgently. Instantly! Now!

He drew a deep breath, steadying himself against the madness.

“Shouldn’t you be furious?” he finally asked, more softly than he had intended, and his hand relaxed its grip, simply resting against skin.

“Perhaps.” Shay shrugged one shoulder slightly. “But I’m not. And I’ve been left alone in that bed, thinking it over again… and again…” There was a challenge in his eyes now. “…And again.” The man even had the unbelievable audacity to grin. “…Abundant frustration, I think you called it, Sir?”

Haytham had survived an atrocious week. The thought of simply slicing Shay’s clothes up to gain access and throwing him on the table, was exceedingly appealing. But if fulfilment was suddenly, miraculously, within his grasp, he didn’t want to miss anything, no nuances, no sensation, by sprinting towards it.

Forcing as much control into his movements as he could muster, his hand slowly wandered to the back of Shay’s neck and drew him closer, maddeningly unhurried.

The first soft sensation of Shay’s mouth made him sigh. It was a little hesitant at first, but then they opened their lips to each other and the taste of Shay’s tongue and the sharp ghost of the brandy, prompted Haytham to lock both hands around the back of his neck, to keep him in place, keep him close. He felt Shay’s hands wandering too, nimbly sliding up under his vest to hold his hips and press them closer together.

Feeling their undeniably shared arousal when their bodies met was new territory and incredibly satisfying; for both, judging from the pleasured hum from Shay’s throat.

Haytham had never known a kiss to be so satisfying, for contact to be so impossibly rousing. His hands were itching to wander, feel, but there was far too much fabric between them. The kiss ended, leaving them short of breath, and both withdrew a little to look the other over, though their hands didn’t let go.

A snippet of reality, and the almost comical lunacy of the situation, asserted itself in Haytham’s mind.

Apparently in Shay’s too: “Kitchen?” he said, a laughter lurking under the surface.

“There’s a room upstairs that I have fond memories of…” Haytham suggested, amazed that the Incident in the Guest Room could suddenly be truthfully described as _fond_.

None of them moved, their hands still locked on each other for a while as though reluctant to let go of the contact. Finally Haytham withdrew his hands, slowly, caressing Shay’s neck, and felt the man’s hands release their grip on his hips. They stood close together, not touching, holding each other’s gaze for a moment, as though the strangeness of the situation was finally imprinting itself on them.

“You’ll trust me, as I trusted you that night.” Shay said, somewhere between a question and a demand, the laughter gone.

“Unreservedly.” Haytham nodded, and his fingers quickly undid the straps of the hidden blade at his wrist, setting the weapon aside and then regarded the former assassin, trying to gauge if this was what he had meant.

Nodding, Shay withdrew a little, looking Haytham over: “Good start.” The smile was back, though hiding in the corner of his mouth. “But I’m barefoot, you’re not. We should start on even footing… even if you cheated blatantly, Sir.” The smile was slowly claiming its place.

“Smirky bastard!” Haytham stated, but did as requested, the tiles of the kitchen floor cool against his bare feet. “Anything else, or can we proceed?”

Shay seemed to think this over, drawing out the moment, a crooked smile on his face. “No, that’ll do. I suppose the rest will happen as it happens.” he finally stated.

“Excellent.”

They looked at each other, both smiling, and the closeness between them suddenly blossomed into a fresh kiss, both pairs of hands travelling braver this time, which kept them breathless and greedy.

The trip up the dark stairs to the landing above was a mess of hands and urgent kisses, the closest Haytham had ever been to combat without it actually being so. Somewhere along the way, his cravat left for greener pastures and Shay's vest remembered an appointment with the downstairs floor.

Haytham knew it was ridiculous, unforgivably youthful, intensely inappropriate, and he revelled in the joy of it, drinking in the lack of control. The equality between them. That their lust was of like intensity.

When they reached the guest room, lit only by the small flames of a dying fire, they ended up, thoroughly wrapped around each other, with Haytham’s back against the closed door.

Shay’s hands were busy pulling at Haytham’s unbuttoned vest, while Haytham was fighting to pull Shay’s shirt off, without breaking lip-contact; both effectively preventing the other from reaching their undressing goal. A few moments of mutual thwarting later, they both started laughing.

“Would you stop being so stubborn!” Haytham demanded in exasperation.

“If you stop expecting to have your way!” Shay responded, all but rolling his eyes. His hands drew the leather string from Haytham’s hair, caressed his neck and then quickly pulled his vest off his shoulders, sliding it down his arms and dropped it on the floor, before turning his attention to pulling the shirt up. 

“Unbelievable…” Haytham’s fingers hooked into the waistband of Shay’s breeches and undid the first button. Then he sucked in his breath, distracted, when Shay’s hands finally found their way under the fabric and wandered up his stomach and chest.

The hands were calloused, large, strong, determined, and the glaring difference from feeling a woman’s soft touch was both completely foreign and incredibly thrilling.

When haunted by the Incident in the Guest Room, he had never thought of _being_ touched, only of touching. But if this sensation was the punishment for relinquishing control, then control could consider itself well and truly dismissed, he decided.

He felt a knowing grin against his lips, jaw and neck, lips again, while Shay’s hands explored his skin and finally pulled the shirt over his head, uncontested. Haytham opened his eyes and found Shay’s gaze.

Having a partner at eye-height, with whom the only consideration needed was where to put his hands so as not to prod the bruise that was troubling him, made Haytham shake his head slightly in sudden disbelief of his strange fortune.

Then his fingers suddenly remembered what they were doing, pulled Shay closer by the waistband and undid the last button of his breeches, pushing them down the narrow hips, in his mind cursing the under-breeches beneath and their damned extra buttons, before removing the man’s shirt.

It felt like drowning when Shay’s bare chest was finally pressed against his own. Their lips were locked together and Haytham realised his hands were clamped firmly between Shay’s shoulder blades, and at the small of his back respectively, holding him as close as he could without touching his side. He drew a deep, shaky breath. There was too much urgency, too much need, and he was desperate to finally touch as well; to slow down, so everything wouldn’t just blend into one act of desperation.

He waited a second until Shay had kicked his pants away, then he pressed them firmer together, curled his fingers into Shay’s hair and forced him around, pressing him against the door in a quick motion. There was a second’s tension in the body, then Haytham was grasped by the shoulders and pushed away slightly.

“And what’ll you do with this, Sir?” Shay enquired defiantly, though his voice was half breathless, brown eyes golden in the flicker of the firelight.

Haytham’s hands finally had room and opportunity and answered the question for him, tracing familiar, delightful paths from one scar to the other. He leaned closer for an almost-kiss, just the ghost of a touch, as his fingers brushed up the scar from below the ribs and gently ended in a caress against the broken skin of Shay’s nipple. The reaction was immediate, tactile and audible, a sharp gasp, his body arching needily towards the touch, their hips pressing together. There was a moan to the insistent kiss that followed.

Haytham’s fingers kept travelling, as though by familiar landmarks, down to the deep scrapes in the skin running across the hip and disappearing below the waistband, when Haytham felt Shay’s hands, insistent, precise, open his breeches and underclothes and pull them down. Abandoning the pleasured wanderings, Haytham’s hands reciprocated, and the kiss was forgotten for a moment as they pulled the last clothes off each other, kicking the offending pieces of textile away.

Their bodies met in the middle, finally, naked, unhindered, the glorious warmth of skin against skin. They stood together for a time, soaking up the alien sensation, heartbeats thundering, hands shaky on each other.

Haytham could feel Shay’s breath, quick and urgent, on his neck when he finally moved, let his lips trace softly down the neck, shoulder, chest, pinning Shay back towards the door with his hands on the scarred hips.

His own breath was heaving and fast, the bombardment of sensations all over his body threatening to push him over the edge. His kisses reached the scarred nipple, the tip of his tongue tasted it gently, and the sensation of warm, scarred skin against his lips made his heart pound so fast it felt like each beat rocked his entire body.

A half-subdued exclamation came from Shay’s throat and it felt like the sweetest music in Haytham’s ears.

“…Sir.” he managed, a trembling hand locking around the back of Haytham’s neck, a leg hooking around him to press them closer to each other.

Haytham’s lips travelled back to Shay’s, the last coherent action he was capable of.

Their hands, tongues and naked proximity quickly conspired against them, the maelstrom of the senses kicking, first Shay, and seconds later, Haytham, into the culmination of their lust.

They clung to each other for a long time afterwards, panting, but unmoving.

Then the slow, insistent realisation of what had just transpired, what he had let himself do, not only with a man, but with a brother of the Order, a fellow soldier he might one day order to his death, impressed itself insistently on Haytham’s mind. He gave a deep sigh against Shay’s neck, and then his tongue felt a small wound on his lip where apparently Shay had bitten him, unnoticed in the madness of the final kiss.

The small bubble of blood was salt and metallic on his tongue when he slowly disentangled himself enough to look at the man his hands and body and mind had been wrapped around.

Although the breath was still fast in Shay’s body, there was a seriousness, bordering on awed disbelief, in his features and a frown slowly painting itself on his forehead. It seemed his eyes were mirroring Haytham’s hesitations and realisations.

Shay’s tongue hurriedly licked his lips and he opened his mouth to say something. Haytham quickly leaned in to silence him with a soft kiss. The deed had been done, nobody had been forced, and he’d be damned in Hell before he would allow himself to regret any of it! He shook his head: “None of us have the right to be worried about this.” he whispered and searched Shay’s eyes for confirmation that he understood.

Shay nodded. “Agreed.” he said softly. “We have no right to worry.”

“…Except perhaps me, since I started it.” Haytham added as an afterthought, feeling a smile slowly curl his lips.

“Or me, since I continued it.” Shay smiled and slowly disentangled himself from the sticky closeness to grab a shirt from the floor and wiped them both off, smilingly responding to the slow kiss that followed. By unspoken consent, they found themselves in the bed, and Shay pulled the blanket, crumpled from his week of tenancy, over them. Then he dropped on to his back with a sigh.

“Smarts like the Devil, this.” he commented, pressing a hand to his ribs. In the half-light from the fire, the bruise was a dark blotch all the way down his side.

“You do have a habit of getting yourself magnificently mauled.” Haytham replied, a smile in his voice, and turned to his side, his fingers wandering without his conscious permission across Shay’s chest, stopping at the lower part of the scar that snaked up through the nipple.

“This must be… difficult?” Haytham asked.

“How do you mean?” Shay rolled on to his unbruised side to face Haytham.

“Considering the reaction it provokes?”

Shay gave a laugh. “…That’s on the assumption that this has ever happened before.”

Haytham’s fingers insistently caressed their way up the scar. He watched as Shay’s eyes closed and he drew a soft sigh of pleasure. “This has never happened before?” Haytham demanded, incredulous.

“True…” Shay opened his eyes. “It’s given me pain on occasion, when my shirt moves across, but never anything good.” His fingers went to Haytham’s hips, sliding the blanket down to follow the scar there that mirrored his own. He grinned. “I wonder if we all have a mark like this. A mark of failing.”

“I’d prefer the term mark of falling.” Haytham smiled and his hand reached around Shay to trace down his spine, feel the tight muscles of his back. They came to rest at a scar, an indentation on a rib, like someone had scooped a small, rugged-edged spoonful out of his flesh.

Shay’s hand stopped in its track on Haytham’s skin. “…Liam’s way of telling me we weren’t friends anymore.” he remarked.

“He put a bullet in your back?” Haytham asked, seeing Shay’s curt nod. “…Tasteful.”

“I was ready to die by my own hand. He didn’t trust me to get it right, I suppose.” he said tonelessly.

“Enough of that. It’s in the past. It was their loss.” Haytham’s fingers quickly went to a wound on Shay’s chest from a large piece of glass that had been embedded there. It was closed, but bruised around the edges from the sutures. “I thought my stitches were better than that…” he mumbled.

“They did the job. And I was a headless chicken that night.” Shay said, a small smile claiming the corner of his mouth. “I can’t have made it easy on you.”

“Not exactly, no.” Haytham confirmed.

“I remember you saying you would hear the voices and the screaming, instead of me?” Shay said uncertainly, frowning a bit as though grasping at the memory.

“I… suppose I did. You were not quite present in the same reality as I was.”

“I am now.” Shay leaned close and their lips met as his hand traced lines of warmth down Haytham’s side, hip and thigh. Before their hands got too greedy, he withdrew again, a challenging grin on his face.

“…And you are smirking, Master Cormac.” Haytham commented dryly, pushing Shay gently down on his back and pinning him there with an elbow to the unbruised part of his chest. 

“Well, Sir, since I expect nothing that’s happened tonight will ever leave this room, I have a question I’d like answered.” he stated, laughter in his voice.

“I can imagine... So what is it?”

“You said earlier that you’re not in the habit of swearing fools into the Order…”

“That would be the truth.”

“Then how the sodding Hell is Thomas Hickey a member?” Shay laughed.

Haytham couldn’t hold his laughter back: “You’d break this up for Thomas bloody Hickey!” he demanded.

“Will you answer?” Shay simply persisted.

“Very well… It was before my time. He was listed as a sympathetic contact that could be of use to me. But, incidentally, I _do_ trust the man completely.”

“You… trust him?”

Haytham grinned at the look of incredulous scepticism on Shay’s face. “I absolutely trust him to be a drunk, mindless brute who is exactly as loyal as the money I pay him. And since I keep doing that, our cooperation has so far been flawless.”

Shay gave a laugh: “For a moment there, I thought I was back on the poison-ship with reality broken.”

“Have you asked your fill, then? Can we please return to more pressing matters than …Thomas Hickey? …Of all things.” he requested, trying not to laugh.

“Pressing matters?” Shay hooked an arm around Haytham’s neck, drawing him close.

There was laughter in their kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was actually a challenge of sorts, from my amazing friend Aniphine.  
> We, somewhat drunkenly, with the help of a love-dartboard (perish the eskimo-kiss!), tried to puzzle out what could possibly entice Haytham into a sexual encounter, where he was the aggressor. At the end of the discussion, however, Aniphine was brilliantly adamant that Haytham’s prime source of psycho-sexual gratification would be crossing mission objectives off on a to-do list. =D  
> This story was an attempt to see if I could make Haytham take a break from said to-do list, without breaking the man apart. 
> 
> (And, Aniphine; did you notice the elbow in the story? Hahaha!  
> …Also, Charles Lee went that way. -> He’s wearing red!)

**Author's Note:**

> Hi there ^^  
> If you like the story, please take the time to press that kudos-button, it totally makes my day. (Yes, I'm a kudos-whore! Please, pet my ego, don't be shy.)   
> And throw me a comment too. I'd love to hear from you. =D


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